Lessons
by Cashwin
Summary: Mrs Holmes wants darling, little Sherlock to learn to play the violin, but his older brother Mycroft would prefer for him to learn something more valuable...
1. Chapter 1

AN: Woohoo! Another Holmes childhood fic :D I thought I'd do some chapters here about little Sherlock learning to play the violin, but mostly from Mycroft's POV. Not the kind of thing I would normally write, but if anyone could let me know whether or not it works, that would be grand! :)

Disclaimer: I don't own _Sherlock_, thank gawd. I wouldn't want to have to write a sequel to _that_ monstrous cliffhanger…

* * *

The clock chimed one o'clock. It was an expensive chime – you could tell by the way its deep, sonorous notes lingered in the air and shook little motes of dust from the glass cases that lined the room. How ironic that a music shop should be so deathly silent, all instruments imprisoned in transparent cases as though they were wild, exotic animals only to be looked upon, never to be touched. As though the twitter of the flute, or the bellow of the trombone was somehow a threat to society.

There was nobody in the shop, other than the shopkeeper, who twitched behind the counter at the sudden noise and quickly trained his eyes on the entrance (a small, engraved, black door that would have looked charming and quaint, were it not for the heavy industrial bolts and locks studded down the side).

He liked the stuffy, oppressed atmosphere of his store, and it troubled him deeply to think of his fellow shop owners bedecking theirs in that dreadful, new eighties fashion. This was a Victorian building and he'd be damned if it bowed to the colourful, hippy-ish fads of the sixties, or leaned towards the tasteless trends of the recently passed seventies. No, the musty reds and purples would be staying, along with the antique flowery wallpaper and the velvety carpet to muffle any offending footfalls. It attracted a certain type of customer, you see. Not to mention it was easier to hear someone coming…

_Tinkle_, went the bell.

'Ah, good afternoon, Mrs Holmes,' went the shopkeeper. He hastily brushed biscuit crumbs off the counter. 'How are you today?'

The lady smiled warmly as she removed her scarf. It couldn't be denied that she was very easy on the eye, he noted: a bundle of sleek, shoulder-length black curls framed a round, pale face, and from underneath her prim coat peeped the hem of a patterned knee-length skirt. But she was in no way delicate looking – taller than the average woman, and now in her mid-forties, she seemed incredibly comfortable in her own skin. The beginnings of crow's feet gave her expression a welcoming quality, but there was a gleam of sharpness in those large, brown eyes.

'Oh, yes, yes, fine, thank you, George,' she replied, a little distractedly. 'Although I'm afraid I'm not alone today…'

At that moment, an adolescent boy strolled through the entrance behind her, a similar knowing smile indulging his features. He shared his height and intense, chocolate-brown eyes with his mother, but his posture seemed colder and more business-like. The shopkeeper repressed a shiver – it was like looking at a middle-aged man trapped inside a teenager's body.

'Ah, young Mycroft. A pleasure as always.'

Stepping out from behind the counter to shake hands, George couldn't help wincing as the portly teen chuckled. 'Such politeness. Not something you often see these days.' Then Mycroft turned to his mother and muttered, 'Sherlock's still hanging around outside…'

Mrs Holmes dropped her smile and pursed her deep red lips with irritation. 'One moment.' She opened the door again and leaned out of the aperture to give the shouted command, 'Sherlock darling! Will you come inside _now_, please!'

A smaller, younger boy then loped into the shop, barely caring where he put his feet to the point that several times he narrowly missed crashing into the glass cabinets. A scowl was visible underneath the mop of black curls tumbling over his forehead – someone had clearly tried to gel them back, but to no avail.

Despite both children being dressed smartly in black trousers and tidy jumpers, this boy lacked the neatness of his sibling - maybe because he was so incredibly thin that even the custom-made clothing just hung off him like a clotheshorse. Mrs Holmes gently placed a gloved hand on each bony shoulder and steered him towards the counter.

'This is my other son, Sherlock.'

George bit back a laugh. _Sherlock_? Poor child. Mind you, this was the Holmes family; they could have named their children after chocolate bars for all they cared. He extended his hand once again and smiled encouragingly, but the child wouldn't even give him eye contact.

'We… need some help, George' sighed Mrs Holmes, and this time, there was a hint of sorrow in her voice as she gazed at the man earnestly. 'He's seven years old and he doesn't, well, he _talks_ – sometimes – but he's so incredibly shy. Our doctor suggested that maybe music would be a solution, you know, to express himself… I know it's quite late to start now, but,' she glanced at Mycroft, 'my other son plays the piano so beautifully and I thought we might have a musical streak in the family…'

'Yes, indeed,' George nodded vigorously. 'Yes, learning an instrument can often help a child, as you so eloquently put it, _express_ themselves.'

'Well…' Mrs Holmes bent down until her face was level with Sherlock's. 'Why don't you pick an instrument, darling? Any one you like.'

'I highly recommend one of our flutes – whoops, sorry,' George felt something bump into him and realised he'd very nearly tripped over the boy in his haste to point out the most expensive items on sale. Sherlock seemed oblivious, however. 'Or – or a saxophone, that's quite unusual, or perhaps a harp –'

'My son is quite capable of making his own mind up, thank you.'

'Ah, yes, yes, quite right.' George scurried back to the counter, but kept watching the boy carefully and prayed the clumsy child wouldn't stumble close enough to anything to break it.

Sherlock wandered about the store for a while, before finally coming to a halt and half-heartedly prodding a delicate cabinet window. George craned his neck to look, but he already knew the contents. He grinned. Mrs Holmes didn't look so happy.

'Oh, the _violin_. A wonderful choice. Mrs Holmes, your son has excellent taste.' He caught her slightly troubled expression. 'Of course, it takes a lot of practice for the music to be enjoyable… I hope your neighbours don't live too close –'

'Not for several acres, no,' replied the mother smoothly, smile returning. 'No, that's no problem at all.'

The shopkeeper dipped under the counter and cheerfully retrieved a giant tome of a book. He licked his finger and began to flick the pages. 'We do have a _splendid_ model here… a high bridge gives the player an easy –'

'Yes, yes, we'll take the most expensive one you've got.' Mrs Holmes was already drawing out her wallet with the resigned air of someone who has done this many times before. 'Come, Mycroft, Sherlock. We're going.'

There was a sudden _snap_ of something priceless breaking behind them.

'I'll pay for that too,' she said wearily, without looking round.

* * *

Mycroft turned to his brother in the back seat of the car. Taking care to keep his voice low so that his mother couldn't hear from the front passenger seat, he hissed, 'That was a stupid thing you just did, Sherlock.'

The younger boy remained staring out of the window, apparently intent on watching the endless patchwork of fields whiz past. Lips barely moved as he murmured his reply. 'What's wrong with the violin?'

'Oh, nothing, nothing.' Mycroft raised his eyebrows and turned away. 'In fact, once you've had lessons and mastered it to the same standards as my piano playing, I'm sure Mummy would love to hear us play a duet.'

The response was a snort of disgust and Mycroft heaved a sigh.

'You _know_ I'm not talking about the violin.'

Sherlock visibly stiffened. 'How did you see?'

'Ohh…' Mycroft leaned back in the leather seat, closed his eyes, and tried to recall the excitement he'd felt upon first realising that his little brother shared those gifts of sharp observance and intelligence that he himself possessed. Finally, he had thought, here was somebody who could _understand_ him and maybe even _challenge_ him after so many years of trying to befriend useful, but otherwise ignorant, people of his own age.

True, Mycroft had relished the power he held over his duller, awe-struck classmates at school, but it was just tedious never to have an intellectual conversation with someone under the age of forty and, well, even the adults now came to regard him with a mixture of fear and ridicule. Mummy had tried her best to entertain her first-born, but it wasn't the same. It was lonely being a fourteen-year-old genius.

But with the right guidance, Mycroft had believed he could mould Sherlock's talents and transform him into the perfect ally and a proper little gentleman too, just like Mummy wanted. He had enthused about the responsibility of tutoring and caring for his protégé, and the respect and gratitude he would no doubt receive in return. After all, what child _wouldn't_ want to become like Mycroft?

How naive he had been.

And how utterly infuriating it was to find that darling little Sherlock had no interest whatsoever in becoming another polite and respectful member of the family, but would rather use his skills for more questionable purposes… such as robbing harmless civilians.

'I'm your brother. I don't need to see. I _know_.' Mycroft held out his hand. 'Give it to me.'

With an overly dramatic groan, Sherlock dug out a small, round object from his trouser pocket and dropped it into Mycroft's gloved palm. It was a pocket watch – _Patek Phillipe _by the looks of it – and bore no signs of damage or disrepair, other than displaying the incorrect time. The engraving had the surname of the shopkeeper, but a different Christian name. He felt his stomach drop. Almost definitely a valuable family heirloom, then. Mycroft decided it might be best not to divulge quite _how_ valuable it was.

'Mm.' He lifted the heavy, gold item up to the light of the window. It wouldn't do for him to admit he was impressed by his brother's slight of hand, but from the way he was fidgeting, it looked as though Sherlock would soon explode if he didn't get to brag about his achievements. 'Go on, then. When did you take it?'

'When I bumped into him,' gabbled Sherlock, breathlessly. 'It was in his jacket pocket. So _easy_. And then I broke something afterwards to make it look as though I was just clumsy.'

'Yes, I did wonder where the sudden bout of inelegance came from… you'll have to give this back, of course.'

'Finders keepers.'

Mycroft frowned. His brother clearly had no idea of the object's value, but he could be dangerously reckless at times. At all times, in fact. Shy? Mummy had _no_ idea. He decided to try a different tack.

'It really wouldn't do for our family name to be associated with petty thievery,' he said carefully. 'Mummy would be so cross.'

'Can't prove it was me.' Sherlock wiggled his fingers from inside his mittens. 'No fingerprints.'

Morality and guilt wouldn't work then. Fear it was. 'So… I assume you noticed he already had a watch on his wrist?'

Still bathing in the glow of his own cleverness, Sherlock smirked. 'Well, yes.'

'Mm. So what was the purpose of having another watch in his pocket?'

'Maybe he really liked it?'

'Yes, he wanted to keep it with him at all times, but for sentimental reasons? Or because he had a break-in last week and wanted to ensure the safety of his most valuable possession should the thieves come back?'

'Break-in?' A flicker of doubt passed over the little boy's face. 'Oh, the tiny bits of broken glass still on the floor…'

Mycroft allowed himself a laugh. 'Very good. Or last week's newspapers would have told you, if you ever read them.'

'What's the point of this?'

'Oh, brother, you _see_, but you don't _observe_,' he drawled. Ah, what a good line. 'You saw the sheer number of new locks and bolts on that door, but you should have observed that this shopkeeper was clearly paranoid. And rich. Paranoid and rich enough to purchase a brand new surveillance system in the last week maybe. So, you didn't see the video camera, disguised rather badly behind the biscuit tin on the counter, recording your every move. Video footage as criminal evidence is due to become very fashionable this decade, I've heard.'

Sherlock gazed at him in horror. 'He _filmed_ me?'

'Don't worry, I'm sure the police will go easy on a seven-year-old child.' Mycroft turned his gaze to his own window. He allowed Sherlock to squirm for some seconds before addressing him again with a grim smile. 'But if it bothers you, I can have Petra return the watch discreetly and cover the costs of any inconvenience.' Not a typical job for an au pair, but then, theirs wasn't a typical family.

Sherlock looked away from him awkwardly, the returning scowl revealing how annoyed he was with himself for having shown such emotive weakness.

'No, no need to thank me,' Mycroft added drily, noting the pronounced silence.

There was a muffled grunt of gratitude.

'And you can repay me by practicing that horrid instrument as far away from me as possible.' Mycroft sniffed. 'I _hate_ the violin.'


	2. Chapter 2

AN: Because I am an extremely scatty and disorganised person, this is a very late update. Sorry! But thanks so much for the reviews - I reaaaally appreciate them :D

* * *

"_SQUEAK SQUEAK SQUEEEAAAK –_"

"You know, I think Sherlock's finally getting somewhere with his violin," said Mrs Holmes thoughtfully. She raised her voice to be heard over the racket. "A year's worth of lessons and I can almost identify the tune!"

"_SQUEEEEAK SQUEAK SQUEAK –_"

"Twinkle twinkle little star, or baa baa black sheep? What do you think, Mycroft?"

Mycroft looked up from his copy of the Economist and politely refrained from whacking his head on the armrest of the sofa.

"Mm," he managed.

Mrs Holmes groaned and put her face in her hands. "No, you're right. He's no better. But," she raised her head and gestured to the playroom door, through which the music – if it could be called that - was penetrating, "he _has_ become a lot more vocal recently, hasn't he? He even said hello to me this morning!"

"Ye-es…"

She cast him a shrewd look. "You would tell me if there was something wrong with him at school?"

"I… don't go to his school. I wouldn't know." Mycroft arranged his face carefully. Every hint of emotion removed. Years of practice in front of a mirror. And yet his mother still saw through it.

She smiled. "Of course. My mistake."

The sound of a frustrated yelp, and a musical _crash_ from the playroom, interrupted their dwindling conversation.

"Oh heavens, now what's that?"

There followed the shrill, muffled tones of a woman shouting, before the door was flung open with gusto.

"No, I just – can't – take – get away from me!" A stout, indignant woman emerged from the room, angrily snapping her violin back into her case as she did so. She approached Mrs Holmes, barely able to contain her rage to the point where she seemed to find difficulty in constructing a coherent sentence.

"Mrs Holmes, your son is the most – the most infuriating child I have ever had the misfortune of coming across!"

The mother gaped. "I beg your –"

"First he – he starts making comments about my personal appearance and then, _then_," the woman gestured wildly, "whilst he plays, he makes malicious statements about my own personal life – totally baseless, slanderous rumours –"

"I will have a word with him, but –"

"He is a _complete_ monstrosity!"

Mrs Holmes rose suddenly from her armchair to make use of her full height, eyes gleaming with the unparalleled fury of an insulted mother. "Now _that_ I will not tolerate. Sherlock is nothing of the sort! If you have a problem with him, I suggest you get out of my house."

"With pleasure! How anyone could stand more than five minutes in that beast's company…"

Mrs Holmes waited for the woman to storm out of the room before she turned back to Mycroft, visibly shaking.

"How _dare_ she say that about _my_ son!"

"In her defence," Mycroft murmured. "I believe his past five tutors said a similar thing..." He let out of gasp of surprise as his magazine was snatched roughly from his fingers. His mother glared back at him.

"Mycroft, go and see to your brother."

"Me? Why me? He doesn't listen to me. It would be a wasted effort."

"Oh, Mycroft," his mother tutted, running her fingers through her hair. "You hold the majority of your school under your thumb and yet you have no power over a sulky eight-year old boy. What kind of brother are you?"

"An unappreciated one."

"Then make him appreciate you," she said firmly, pulling him up and pushing him roughly towards the door.

* * *

On entering the playroom (although the high ceiling, large French windows and pristine white walls made it too grim to be described as such), Mycroft wasn't totally surprised to find the tip of a violin bow pressing against his forehead.

"Oh. It's you." Sherlock swiftly lowered his improvised weapon, with a hint of disappointment. "I thought you were _her_ coming back to yell at me again."

The instrument – the very, very expensive instrument – lay barely intact in the corner of the room. Mycroft tried not to imagine the moment when thousands of pounds of carefully crafted wood had smashed into the wall. Closer examination would reveal who exactly had thrown it, but to Mycroft, the identity of the culprit was instantly obvious.

"Mummy may always be on your side," he said tetchily, letting the door close softly behind him, "but I know better. What did you do to your teacher?"

"I just… observed her." The little boy flopped down onto the floor by the rain-streaked windows and gave his brother a sharp look. "That's what you told me to do."

"That wasn't exactly the –"

Oh, why bother? They were too different to understand each other. Hard to believe they shared the same genes; there was Mycroft: talented, intelligent, respectful; and then there was _this _volatile, tousle-haired specimen, swishing his bow as if it marked out the invisible barrier between them. _Swish_ and the eccentricities of the real world just bounced off, leaving Sherlock festering with his own thoughts and concerns inside a safe, private little bubble.

Maybe they did live in different worlds. There was no time for Mycroft to cocoon himself away – there were people to be polite to, relatives to smile at, guests to shake hands with, and yet, here was his brother, swatting away the unwritten rules and codes of social conduct like they were beneath him.

Feelings of resentment were irritably brushed aside. One had no use for these things. In a more business-like tone, Mycroft said,

"You asked her whether her husband had been having an affair, didn't you?"

"Yup!"

Correct observation, but still wrong. Mycroft groaned. Eight-year-olds weren't supposed to know about things like this, were they?

"But _she_ said he hadn't and got all cross and _I_ said, I think he has, look at what you're wearing for a start... do you want to know how I worked it out?"

"Sherlock," Mycroft said firmly. "You can't say these things."

A mixture of expressions flittered over Sherlock's features before settling on confusion. "But you told me –"

"It is generally considered bad manners to point out somebody's personal… affairs. It's not normal. People will think you're… weird."

He spoke the last word with more venom than he'd intended, but it was almost satisfying to see his brother's milky grey eyes widen in dismay.

"But it's –"

"They already _do_ think you're weird, don't they? At school? Sherlock, you have to learn to hide it!"

"I _can't_! It's not my faul –"

"It's not difficult, being normal!"

"It _is_!"

"You're probably not trying hard en –"

"STOP IT!" The desperate shriek rang in Mycroft's ears long after it had finished, more piercing than any violin. To further illustrate the point, a fistful of marbles came sailing in his direction, forcing him to duck rather ungracefully as they pounded the wall behind him and thudded to the ground like glass bullets.

Mycroft steadied himself for another attack, but to his surprise, found the specimen had twisted itself round into a snivelling, miserable little bundle on the floor. Temporarily stunned at the sudden mood swing, Mycroft froze where he stood, half wondering whether his mother had heard the commotion and would come running, half wondering what the hell to do with the Sherlock-bundle, which was clutching at its hair and rocking in a disturbingly panicked fashion.

If he hadn't known better, he would have labelled the behaviour as attention-seeking, but Sherlock usually favoured the more extreme methods: jumping off high brick walls… setting fire to his bedroom… flooding the bathroom… not just… _crying_.

"Er," Mycroft floundered, and then flushed, annoyed that his brother's stupid, childish actions were so easily exposing his inabilities.

"Go away, Mycroft," said the Sherlock-bundle thickly, indicating that the magnolia carpet was being treated to a private soaking of snot and tears.

Only too pleased to obey, Mycroft turned for the door – he knew when he was out of his depth. Mummy would know what to do. He wasn't accustomed to such raw emotion playing out in front of him like this, dripping over the upholstery in his own house. Such problems couldn't be left to a fifteen-year old boy to deal with, after all.

But as he touched the handle, something made him hesitate. A brief, flicker of emotion that he couldn't shake off; it niggled at him, bubbled up and tugged at his thoughts, until he found it was yanking him, puppet-like, across the room to his brother's side.

Bother.

Guilt wasn't for people like him; it was for the idiots in the world who made mistakes and regretted their actions, and now here it was, casually reminding him that this was partly his fault. Thinking he could train his brother like some kind of obedient pet. How cold did that make him?

He'd have to fix this. Somehow. He crouched down and awkwardly patted the bundle where he thought its shoulder might be, in what he hoped was a reassuring manner. Sherlock hiccoughed, but didn't move away; whether this was to Mycroft's relief or disappointment, he himself couldn't quite tell.

Devoid of anything better to do, the elder brother leaned against the window, sank down and stretched out his legs. Then he waited. Waited for Sherlock's violent shaking to reduce to a slight, intermittent tremble, and the heavy, choking breathing to steady to a more regular pace.

For ten, maybe fifteen minutes, the two of them were side by side; one boy huddled up, punctuating the silence with the occasional sob or sniffle, the other tapping his fingers distractedly on the floor, occasionally falling into phase with the random drumming of the rain at the window. Eventually, the younger brother rolled over to rest wetly on the Mycroft's arm. Taking this as a signal that it was safe to speak, Mycroft said, as gently as possible,

"Problems, little brother?" _He'd_ need to buy another jumper, for one.

The Sherlock-bundle shifted. "'oo much stuff in m'head."

"Ah." Mycroft carefully extricated his arm from underneath his brother's nose. Now they were getting somewhere.

"Everything I see – or hear – sticks in my brain. Builds up. Fizzes round. Can't think straight."

"I see."

A head emerged from the bundle, and Sherlock's glistening red-rimmed eyes looked up at him. "One – one d-day," Sherlock said miserably, "my head is just going to explode! Boom! Blood and bits of brain everywhere. Hope it gets over your horrible piano…"

"Should it ever happen, little brother, rest assured I would still be sending you the cleaning bill."

An extra loud snuffle. "How does everyone else cope if they're normal?"

They can cope because they're idiots, Mycroft thought. They don't notice every little detail, like the colour of someone's shoes. They don't observe the movements and habits of every person in the room. They don't absorb information like a sponge, until there's no room for complicated things like social awareness. What Mycroft came to regard as a gift, his brother saw it as a curse.

He began to feel the uncomfortable sensation of responsibility piling up on his shoulders; he was probably the only person able to deal with this.

"Here's a suggestion," he said carefully. "Try forgetting it."

"Forgetting what?"

"Whatever you want. Whatever you feel isn't important. Delete it. Make space."

"It's haaaard."

"You have to," he said sternly. "Everyone forgets things, but you maybe need to try a bit harder than most."

"How? How do _you_ do it?"

"Me? Oh, I…" his forehead creased in thought. "I suppose playing the piano is a welcome distraction. As is focussing on other things, like you. And when you play that horrid violin, it usually drives most other thoughts from my mind."

There was a silence as Sherlock pondered this.

"So you could maybe write a diary, or…"

"Play my violin?"

Damn. Anything but that.

"I like the sound. It stops other things getting in." Sherlock grinned unsteadily. "And it has the added bonus of annoying _you_…"

"Yes, well. If it helps…" Mycroft said, with as much cheer as he could muster. Sacrifices would have to be made. "Try it. Practice makes perfect." And a very deaf Mycroft, he added to himself.

Sherlock scowled once again, annoyed at not having provoked a more irritable response from his brother. "Still won't work."

"No?" Mycroft raised an eyebrow. He'd practiced _that_. "Perhaps you're right. Maybe," – he gave a regretful sigh – "the simple task of forgetting something is beyond the powers of the almighty little Sherlock Holmes…"

"Mmph."

"I prefer you in this mute, jumbled-up state anyway. It's much more peaceful…"

"…"

"And after all, your brain won't ever be quite as complex as mine…"

He let the sentence hang in the air and, with much satisfaction, watched Sherlock's pout become gradually more pronounced as the boy contemplated the challenge.

It was nice to see a plan… well, go to plan.

"Can I delete _you_?"

"I don't recommend it," Mycroft muttered, as he pushed himself up with some difficulty. Content that his brother had returned to his more natural, insolent state, Mycroft inspected his arm for green, slimy snot trails before picking his way back across the room, now treacherously strewn with marbles.

In an instant, Sherlock had reverted back to his sulky, spread-eagled position, the red rings circling his eyes and tear tracks criss-crossing his ashen face being the only evidence of his previous condition. The voice was as sullen as ever.

"You won't tell anyone about this." It was a statement, not a question. He didn't need to elaborate for Mycroft to understand what he was referring to.

"No, of course not." Mycroft cast his brother the briefest of looks. "It would be severely damaging to both our reputations." Although he did have the smug feeling that if he'd managed fixed this problem, he could fix practically anything.

He turned for the door. Again.

"Mycroft?"

"Mm?" He paused.

"Can you mend my violin?"

Bother.


	3. Chapter 3

AN: Thanks if you're still reading this! The chapters will get shorter soon, I swear D:  
Is it alright to assume that Sherlock and Mycroft are now about 9 and 16 respectively?

* * *

The boy's heels tapped on the wooden floor as he strode down the corridor. Mycroft liked hearing the hollow _clock-clock_ of his own footfall; it made him feel important – intimidating, even.

Sherlock said he sounded like girl in high heels.

The jibe resurfaced in Mycroft's thoughts and made him hesitate outside the door. Tempting though it was to turn back the way he'd come – with no one any the wiser – he really needed to deal with this. So he took a deep breath and tried to mask his disgust as he stepped into Sherlock's school sports hall.

He hated sports halls. It was the smell, of course; the stale cocktail of sweat, plastic and sodden clothing slammed into him as ruthlessly as those rugby balls had done during his own PE lessons, not too long ago.

And like most places Mycroft had ever visited, this hall was infused with the sharp tang of wealth. The finest equipment money could buy lined the walls in the form of shiny new basketball hoops and badminton nets. And there, right at the back, bound to an impressive, metal behemoth of a children's climbing frame, was Sherlock.

Disgust was quickly swept aside by a swooping sensation of dread.

Sherlock resembled a kind of improvised, half-finished chrysalis: up to two - no, three - rolls of Sellotape had been used to secure him, from the shoulders down, to the thickest pole of the frame. As a deliciously cruel finishing touch, someone had knotted his scarf neatly around his ankles.

Mycroft almost marvelled at the accomplishment. It must have taken several of the little devils to restrain him like this, although they'd obviously started running out of tape once they'd got to the legs. Sherlock wasn't easy to contain at the best of times, but Mycroft had seen him consume three whole bowls of Frosted Shreddies that morning; to say the boy was an explosive vessel of pure, sugary energy would have been an understatement.

Sherlock's captors were clearly benefiting from their private education.

It was just a shame they hadn't thought to gag him.

"What are _you_ doing here?"

Whether Sherlock's crimson cheeks were due to anger, embarrassment, or the exertion of struggling against his binds, it was difficult to tell. The loathing in his voice, however, was unmistakeable, as his words bounced violently around the walls.

Apart from the two brothers, the hall was deserted. Snatches of the playground noise wafted through the hall entrance, lunch hour rife with the excited shrieks of the free, unburdened children outside. Mycroft continued to stroll casually towards him, only speaking when he had come to a halt some inches away, knowing he was safe from attack.

"Given the circumstances, that question would be more appropriate coming from me, don't you think?"

"I asked first."

Mycroft continued to look down at him and sighed. "Very well." A large brown envelope appeared in his hands. "I was on my way to discuss your school report with your teacher. Mummy was concerned about it."

"Why didn't _she_ come then?"

"She had more important things to do," he replied briskly. "The school knows who I am and were willing to talk to me instead." He frowned, subtle topic change not his strong point. "Now, what happened?"

"Nothing."

"Nothing," he repeated softly, eyebrows soaring. Muffled footsteps in the corridor outside rose and fell in volume as an oblivious teacher walked straight past. "You weren't calling out for help," he mused. "How long were you planning on waiting here?"

"I can usually sort this myself." The tape rustled and squeaked as Sherlock wriggled determinedly, to no avail. His head slumped in tired exasperation. "How did you know I was even here? Spying on me again?"

"Well, yes, there is that," Mycroft admitted, carefully avoiding the full force of his brother's death glare by scrutinising the ceiling. A football was stuck in the beams of the roof. "And I happened to overhear some of your… friends… discussing you in the playground as I came in." He lowered his eyes. "Bragging, I suppose. But quite convenient for me, really."

Bastards, he thought, before he could stop himself.

He had indeed been receiving reports over the past couple of months about his brother's… misfortunes, but they didn't tell him more than he already knew. There were obvious signs: school tie mysteriously vanishing, books being clumsily dropped into puddles… but when Sherlock's head had accidentally managed to soak itself under the cold taps in the toilets, Mycroft began to worry. A lot.

He'd always believed in letting children deal with these things themselves, toughening up, and besides, which member of the prestigious Holmes family would allow themselves to be victimised in such a way? But this was a step too far. It was ridiculous, it was embarrassing, and above all, it was _his bloody brother_.

But even such matters as bullying were never simple when it came to Sherlock. According to the books Mycroft had read on the subject, it was normal for a bullied child to keep silent about their difficulties, but Sherlock wasn't exactly shy when it came to grassing on his classmates - in fact, nothing gave him greater pleasure.

Nor did he skip school, or make excuses like a more wimpish Mycroft had done with his PE lessons. Something wasn't right. Either pride was keeping his silence, or he wasn't entirely blameless in the matter.

A strained cough snapped Mycroft out of his thoughts. Sherlock was looking at him wretchedly, words tumbling reluctantly from his mouth. "Are you going to untie me, then, or what?"

"Ah, I thought you'd never ask." Almost lazily, Mycroft slipped a miniature Swiss army knife from his jacket pocket, flicked out a blade and stooped over his brother, eyes flickering over the unrelenting layers of plastic, judging where best to begin.

"So," he said airily, starting to hack away at the tape around Sherlock's wrists, but talking for all the world as though he was holding a polite conversation in the barber's, "how many were there?"

"I dunno. Seven. Eight."

Essentially the whole bloody class then.

"Hmm." Mycroft freed one of the bony hands, and then clamped his own thicker fingers over the wrist.

"_OW_, what – what're you doing?" As the hand twisted in his grasp, Mycroft squinted at it. Bruising was beginning to appear on the knuckles and flakes of skin – no doubt somebody else's – were visible under the fingernails, confirming his suspicions that his brother appeared to give as good as he got.

On a more pleasing note, there were the beginnings of small calluses forming on the fingertips. At least he was keeping up with the violin practice.

The hand squirmed free and Mycroft looked up. "Do you know why they did this to you?"

Sherlock tossed his head in what he probably thought was an indifferent manner. "Ohh, they just don't like me for some reason…"

"Yes, you're rude, disrespectful and demanding, apparently."

"Yeah, well, they would make up stuff like that –"

"That was what your teacher wrote in your report," said Mycroft shortly.

"Oh."

Mycroft turned his attention to the shoulders, bending closer to make sure he didn't snag the blade on Sherlock's uniform. "I can't say I'm surprised. But for a supposedly intelligent individual, I don't know what possesses you to pick fights when you're hopelessly outnumbered."

"I don't pick fights," Sherlock retorted. "Things just… get out of hand. Like today, all I did was tell someone to give me a pen –"

"You _told_ them. You didn't _ask_?"

"I don't have to ask at home." Again, that seemingly arrogant toss of the head. "_OW_! Look, you almost cut me there!"

"Stop wriggling then. What happened after you _demanded_ a pen?"

"They called me names, the usual ones…" he trailed off, reddening again.

Now wrenching at the arms, Mycroft didn't press for details, but kept slicing at the tape as though completely engrossed in his own task. "And then…?"

"And nothin – _OWowowow_ –"

"Ah, sorry… you were saying?"

"And – and so I called them names back and…"

…and that's how you dealt with it. And the other children saw how it wound you up. So they kept calling you names, prodding you, poking you, but subtly of course, because the teacher only notices when _you_ lash out, because _you,_ Sherlock, like a freak, you stand out like a sore thumb, don't you?

And of course there's no one to defend you, no friends to turn to, so you become more isolated, more angry, your actions become more violent, but the other children still love it because you're their plaything, you're fun to watch, and it's all fine anyway, isn't it, because you're badly behaved and even the teachers don't really like you, so it's not _really_ bullying, is it? So they keep pushing your buttons until you hit them, and bite them, and threaten to take them all on, because what have you got to lose?

And they're wondering how far they can push you, and wouldn't it be _really_ funny if…

"…they wrapped me up to this thing." Arms now liberated, Sherlock took the opportunity to enthusiastically cross them. "I always thought it was the fat kids like you that got bullied."

"What I lack in physical elegance, I more than make up for with social graces, dear brother," said Mycroft, with as much dignity as possible, whilst thunking to his knees to better cut away at Sherlock's chest. "I also find that people are of greater use to me as allies than they are tying me up to gym equipment."

"I don't need people."

"You needed _me_."

Mycroft paused, though Sherlock decided to tug and twist aggressively at the bonds around his legs.

"People are effort. Too much effort. Boring boring boring –"

"And being treated like this is a preferable alternative?" Mycroft took a deep breath and closed his eyes. "You need people to educate you. You need people to give you their pens. And you need people to get you out of… _sticky_… situations like this."

"So?"

"You need to develop a better method of getting what you want from people. Ordering them around like a spoilt brat does you no favours. It's all about…"

Flattering. Bribing. Intimidating…

"…being a nice person," he finished slowly, the words sounding alien in his mouth.

This was met with an offended stare.

"No, forget I said that. But," Mycroft grimaced as he yanked at the last few strands, "politeness, etiquette and empathy will always be your most valuable weapons."

"Don't be dull, Mycroft. I really can't see the point –"

"This," Mycroft snapped, gesturing to the ribbons of plastic littering the floor, now grey with clothing fibres, "needs to stop. Before I find you beaten to a pulp somewhere."

"And what happens if it doesn't? What are you going to do about it?" Sherlock sneered, pulling a face of mock fear. "Shout at me? Beat me up?"

Good god, this child was incorrigible.

"No." Mycroft fixed his brother with the most malevolent glare he could manage. "I'm going to keep watching you. Spying on you. Monitoring you until this ends. You do the family reputation no good."

He neglected to mention that the thought of someone forcing Sherlock's head down the toilet was keeping him awake at night.

"Oh, leave me alone, Mycroft," the boy whined. "Why do you _care?_" A shrill whistle could be heard from outside, and the noise of the playground suddenly swelled, signalling the end of lunch.

"I don't." Letting Sherlock fumble with the remaining tape, Mycroft pushed himself up. "But if anything were to happen to you, Mummy would blame me, and you know how terrifying she is when she's angry. And," he said, as an afterthought, "I wouldn't want your blood on my… shoes."

"You mean hands –_ OW!_" A rolled-up envelope had rapped him sharply on the head.

"Time for your lessons," said Mycroft curtly. "Your teacher will be wondering where you are –" not to mention where the Sellotape is "– and my time has been wasted enough for one day."

Like a grumpy, newly hatched chick, his brother took several wobbly, uncertain steps away from the apparatus and stumbled forward. Mycroft caught him impulsively.

"No, Mycroft, I don't _need_ – just geddoff!"

"Forty-five minutes of restricted movement evidently still taking its toll on your muscles, _little_ brother? Not to worry."

It was vaguely entertaining, watching Sherlock's attempts to lash out and fall over at the same time. Eventually he relented, and Mycroft was able to gingerly put an arm around his waist for support. As they shuffled awkwardly towards the entrance, Mycroft wondered if he could tackle the problem from a different angle.

"I suppose it has already occurred to you that you could just ignore the name calling?"

"That's… boring."

"Boring. Right. Of course." But perhaps, Mycroft thought, he'd have a word with those children - he already knew who they were, of course - and just gently inform them that they'd caught his attention. And that he alone owned the rights to persecute his little brother.

By the time they had reached the door, Sherlock was regaining control of his legs and pushing himself away. His eyes lingering curiously on the brown envelope. "My report. Anything good?"

"From what I can remember… disinterested in reading and writing tasks, doesn't bother to learn spellings, disturbing interest in certain aspects of science… and has almost made a conscious effort to forget fundamental facts e.g. the Earth being round, milk coming from cows, don't run with scissors, etc."

"Are you cross about that?"

"Oh yes," said Mycroft, silently thrilled. "Incredibly angry. Forgetting the basics, dear, dear. Total disaster."

"Clears my head."

"And leaves room for the periodic table, I see."

"You saw that?" Sherlock blinked.

Mycroft rolled his eyes. "Etched all over your torso in biro, yes…" Whilst pulling away the tape, Sherlock's shirt had lifted enough for Mycroft to catch a glimpse of the inky, elemental flesh underneath. Most impressively, the table had been sketched, from Sherlock's perspective, _upside down_.

However, not wishing to inflate his brother's ego any more, Mycroft added some constructive criticism. "You've missed out the noble gases, though."

"Didn't have room. I'm not as wide as you."

Mycroft paused in the doorway.

"Oh dear, you seem to have forgotten your scarf, Sherlock."

"No." Sherlock turned his head to look back. "I haven't. You've got it, haven't –"

In one swift movement, Mycroft had looped the scarf over his little brother's mouth and knotted it tightly into his curly hair.

"Mmph," said Sherlock.

"Much better," smiled Mycroft.


End file.
